


Practically Perfect (the Chance Would Be a Fine Thing remix)

by EachPeachPearPlum



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-04 21:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10999488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EachPeachPearPlum/pseuds/EachPeachPearPlum
Summary: When Gwaine bumps into his ex at the pub where he's supposed to be meeting his boyfriend, it doesn't actually occur to him that he should probably a) warn Percival he's there with Merlin and b) warn Merlin he's just plainwithPercival. With hindsight, it's pretty clear this is a mistake, but Percival has always been better at handling Gwaine's screw ups than he deserves.





	Practically Perfect (the Chance Would Be a Fine Thing remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aeris444](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeris444/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Second Chance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177233) by [Aeris444](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeris444/pseuds/Aeris444). 



> So when sign-ups closed and I read through them, I was pretty sure which name was coming my way (or which was going yours, possibly). A part of me had already started wondering which fic I was going to pick by the time I got the email from the mods, so I had it narrowed down to this or the Frozen one pretty quickly (the theoretical remix for that one began with the sentence _Gwaine has never wanted kids_ , but it never got any longer than that). Not sure what I'd have done if they'd given me someone else, but since they didn't all is good.
> 
> Anyway, imaginary psychic powers aside, I feel so very lucky to have pulled your name from the metaphorical hat, Aeris444. There's a variety in your pairings and your fics that was wonderful to work with, and I very much hope you like this. There's kind of an awful lot more to it, because I struggled so much with the idea of Merlin not getting his second chance, but I'm still working on it and it's about a thousand miles from my usual writing comfort zone so... Well, one day, and until then I think this works pretty well on its own. Fingers crossed you don't hate it, Aeris.
> 
> (Gratitudinal shout-out to the mod(s?) for keeping this fest running - may there be many more years of it. Also gratitude to D, S and my new beta-buddy G for being reassuring and lovely and making sure all my weird phrasings are deliberate rather than dodgy typos. Love you, guys)
> 
> This is a direct continuation of the original fic, so this'll probably read easier if you pop over there first.
> 
> Love to all,  
> Anonymous x

“So,” Percival says, bringing two cups of tea into their bedroom. He puts one down on his bedside table and leans over to pass Gwaine his, shucking his jeans before he sits down on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks.

Gwaine neglects the handle, wrapping his fingers tight around the mug itself until it starts to sting, holding on just a little past that. “So?” he echoes, even though he’s pretty sure he knows what Percival’s going to say, and that he more than deserves whatever accusations he’s going to make. 

He was just so surprised, at first, when Merlin walked over to join him. Not so much flattered, because it's not like he's unused to being approached, and if it'd been some random stranger with a come-on, Gwaine would have turned them down flat, no question about it. But with Merlin he found himself suddenly in a different time and a different place, confronted by someone who was a friend first and foremost, only later prefixed by boy- and then an additional ex-.

It was only natural that, when Merlin was pretty much the highlight of a few years when Gwaine was far from being his best, Gwaine would want to haul him into a hug, buy him a beer (moderation, always in moderation, and if ever he can’t moderate himself he has Percy to remind him, pull him back from the edge, and he knows it's one hell of a weight to carry but he also knows Percival has never once picked something up he isn't absolutely capable of carrying) and bid him tell him how his life was going.

It would have been weird to mention Percival then – _“So, how are you? What are you doing here? Tell me about your life! And, oh, just so you know, I'm engaged to a man with a body to die for, a heart the size of Wales and purer than gold, and who for some unfathomable reason loves me to the ends of the earth and back again!”_ – because who the hell starts a conversation with an old friend with a declaration that they're no longer on the market? It would have stuck out like a sore thumb when they were talking about their jobs, too, and by the time they'd moved on to where they were living Merlin had already mentioned he was back in town sleeping in a friend’s spare room after catching his boyfriend burying his face between some girl’s legs – in their bed, a week before their bloody anniversary – and at that point it would have just seemed like he was rubbing it in.

Only when Percival walked in and Gwaine waved him over did it occur to him that he'd never told Merlin he was meeting someone, and that, on some hypothetical and as yet undecided date, he's going to be marrying that someone.

Percival, fucking saint that he is, seemed to take it in his stride that Gwaine was drinking with the only ex he'd ever mentioned on what was supposed to be their date night. He didn't acknowledge Merlin’s obvious surprise at learning Gwaine was engaged, or point out that they needed to leave pretty much immediately in order to make their dinner reservation, or do any of the many things he could have done to make the evening impossibly awkward, didn't say a fucking thing about any of it until they’d left the pub, had eaten dinner at the Chinese on the corner, and were behind the four paper thin walls and half-heartedly graffiti-ed door of their flat.

“Merlin,” Percival says, and it's so calm, a million miles away from being the start of an argument, even though Gwaine knows his behaviour means he more than deserves one.

“Merlin,” Gwaine echoes, still staring at the mug in his hands, because he has fuck all clue what else to say and nowhere near enough bollocks to look at Percival.

Percival doesn't say anything for a long time, just sits in the bed beside Gwaine, sipping at his tea, so fucking zen. “He was your first?” he asks, and in it Gwaine hears all the words he isn't saying, questions about why Gwaine sat drinking with Merlin without saying why he was actually there in the pub, why he didn't let Percival know Merlin was there before he arrived, why he’d only ever told Percival random snippets here and there, tiny facts when they'd talked about previous relationship that painted only a fraction of a person and revealed basically nothing at all.

“No,” Gwaine answers, and how different his life would have been if Merlin had been the first, if it'd been with someone like him, someone who loved him, made him feel like he was worth more than a few quick tugs as a reward for dropping to his knees behind the bike shed at school. Maybe he could have quit running years ago, would never have needed someone like Percival to drag him into stillness and keep him there. Maybe he'd never have started running in the first place, if he'd ever been able to believe there was someone who might want to hold on to him.

“Not even close to it,” he continues after a moment, because Percival knows him, knows basically everything apart from the year and a half before he dropped out of uni, the year and a half he was with Merlin. “Just…”

He stops, because _Percival_ , and he can't say it, can't devalue what they have by talking about what he gave up a decade ago, threw away like it was nothing even though, once upon a time, Merlin had been absolutely fucking everything.

“Just the first one who matters,” Percival finishes for him, his voice so soft, so gentle, like he's somehow missed the fact that Gwaine has fucked up and he ought to be angry with him.

There's a hand in Gwaine’s hair, just as soft, as gentle as Percival’s voice. “That's good,” Percival says, and the press of his lips to Gwaine’s temple is just as much a surprise as his words. “He seemed nice.”

Gwaine takes a sip of what is now a far too cold cup of tea before putting the mug on his bedside table. Only then does he scrape together enough courage to actually look at Percival, shoulders tight as he tries to prepare himself to accept all the criticism that's been missing from his voice.

There's nothing, though. Just a smile, not even the weary, exasperated, _what am I going to do with you?_ one Gwaine used to see back in the bad times when he (or, more often, a bartender) used to call Percival to pick him up from some hell-hole after a fight (at least, Gwaine fought, and Percival just waited for him to stop being angry) and one or two (or six or seven) drinks too many. It's that smile – that calm, gentle, _perfect_ smile that Gwaine has finally realised means _home_ and _safe_ and that there's pretty much nothing for him to worry about – that gives Gwaine the guts to keep looking at Percival as he says, “He is.”

“That's good,” Percival says again, shuffling down the bed until he's got enough room to lie down without smacking his head on the wall. He holds the quilt up, waiting for Gwaine to lie down next to him, then folds them together the exact same way he always does. Warm breath on Gwaine’s neck, warm arm over his chest, warm legs threaded between his.

Warm, safe, _home_.


End file.
